


A Wrest Of Glory

by Adeleaster



Series: Blight & Beauty [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5334200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adeleaster/pseuds/Adeleaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After four centuries of peace, a large darkspawn horde have erupted into the Korcari Wilds, spreading through the southern hinterlands like a plague. King Cailan of Ferelden swiftly gathered his forces to meet the darkspawn at the ruins of Ostagar and prevent the darkspawn's advance. Among those forces is Cullen Rutherford, the youngest mage permitted to aid the king's army. What initially began as a great honor becomes a terrible burden as their defense is sabotaged by fear, secrets, and betrayal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hearts And Minds Of Men

**Author's Note:**

> _A Wrest Of Glory_ has been rated for depictions of violence, body horror, and death.

A crow caws somewhere in the distance, sharply breaking the eerie silence of the Korcari Wilds.

     Cullen tightens his grip on his staff as he watches the crow abruptly take off from its lofty perch and disappear in a noisy beating of wings. The frozen ground crunches beneath his boiled leather boots, and the hairs raise on the back of his neck.

     Fergus Cousland halts beside Cullen and raises a hand to his soldiers, wordlessly stopping their march. His brown eyes narrow at the shadowy stretch of skeletal black trees, and his right hand moves to the handle of his longsword. Fergus’ mabari warhound—a burly, chestnut-furred beast ostensibly named _Rabbit_ —tenses and growls softly at the air.

     The soldiers seem to have noticed it as well, because their eyes dart about the landscape and they huddle tighter in formation.

     “Ambush!” Cullen shouts a heartbeat before the first dagger falls.

     A soldier cries out in alarm as a hurlock pounces from the shadow, furiously slashing at his arm with a dagger.

     Cullen whirls around, staff in one hand and shining blade in the other, as another darkspawn strikes from somewhere behind him. Its crude blade clashes hard against his shining blade—he thrusts it back with a powerful wave of magic and drives the magical sword through its chest.

     “Guard the flank!” Fergus bellows above the roar of battle as he drives the edge of his shield through the throat of a darkspawn, snapping its neck.

     The darkspawn seem to come from the shadows—even _their_ shadows—and even appear in the middle of their formation. They lash out with crude daggers, seeking weaknesses in the soldiers’ armor.

     Rabbit becomes a terrifying force: the hound pounces on a darkspawn and pins it to the ground, his teeth ripping out its throat in a spray of blackened blood.

     Cullen’s shining blade cleaves neatly through the thick neck of a hurlock, cleanly separating its head from its shoulder. The body thrusts its dagger out feebly even as it stumbles to the ground, bleeding black ichor from its arteries.

     But even as darkspawn fall to the ground, the rest continue to leap and strike at the soldiers from the shadows without acknowledging their fallen. It’s their single-minded tenacity that disturbs Cullen.

     To his credit, Fergus maintains his composure even as the darkspawn manage to separate him from the group. His face set in a steely look of determination, he shrugs aside their glancing blows with his shield and drives his sword deep into the brittle torso of a thin darkspawn.

     Cullen summons an ice spell on the second darkspawn, but it continues to stab wildly at Fergus as though it didn’t even acknowledge the magic. With a loud grunt, Fergus smashes his hilt into the ice—it shatters, spraying bits of magical ice and gore all over the ground. Finally the body sags into a lifeless heap.

     The Korcari Wilds once again fall silent all around them. Even the frozen marshlands seem to hold its breath for fear of what crawls through its shadows. Cullen and the soldiers remain tense, suspicious of every shadow. Only when Rabbit drops his aggressive stance and goes to lick the hand of his master do they sheathe their weapons.

     Cullen exhales deeply dismisses the magical blade. “You there, are you all right?” he calls to a soldier clutching desperately onto his forearm.

     “I-it stabbed me,” the soldier breathlessly stutters, on the verge of hysteria. His hands are shaking so viciously that he cannot sheathe his sword and finally plunges it into the frozen marshland.

     The soldiers distance themselves instinctively and stand near their lord. Fergus remains where he stands, watching the soldier suspiciously, with his sword still held in one hand.

     “Allow me.” Cullen grabs the soldier’s forearm above the vambrace. Black ichor is smeared all over his arm and a number of fresh scratches carve deeply into the grey iron metal.

     “Maker, please, be merciful,” the soldiers mumbles hopelessly, his voice thick and wet.

     Fergus approaches steadily with the sword held in his right hand. “Are you certain that’s wise, Enchanter?”

     “‘Cullen,’ my lord,” Cullen corrects him. He keeps his gaze focused on the vambrace, cleaning off the taint until it reveals the buckles snug against the forearm. “I am certain. The taint won’t change this man to a ghoul in a matter of _seconds_.”

     The soldier makes a strangled noise deep in his throat. “I don’t want to die,” he finally whispers shakily. “My mother is ill and there’s no one else to take care of her—”

     Cullen raises one hand to the back of the soldier’s neck, forcing him to look him in the eyes. “Look at me. _Breathe_.”

     The soldier exhales with him, but he still looks terrified.

     Not that Cullen can blame him: the corruption of the darkspawn is still not fully understood, but there is no cure. It drives the victim to fever, then to madness, all the while leaving the contagious poison in their wake. The healers claim a swift death is the only mercy.

     Cullen removes the vambrace and gauntlet and raises the sleeve of the chain hauberk—revealing clean and unmarked skin underneath.

     “Nothing,” the soldier breathes in relief. “There’s nothing there. Oh, thank you, Maker, for choosing to be merciful.”

     Cullen hands the scratched vambrace to Fergus. “It looks like the metal stopped its dagger,” he explains.

     “I suppose we should be glad the darkspawn are not known for their armaments. Take a moment, soldier,” Fergus commands as he returns the vambrace. He pats the man on the shoulder and sheathes his longsword. “All of you, take a moment then check the bodies.”

     The soldiers seem to exhale a sigh of relief all at once, apparently grateful for the danger to have passed.

     Cullen follows Fergus to the scene of carnage and stands with him on the edge. The butchered corpses of the darkspawn are strewn on the ground. Black blood seeps from their wounds and stain the frozen ground. Cullen has never been squeamish, but he finds it difficult to look at the corpses.

     “You certainly have a way with soldiers.” Fergus kicks over a darkspawn corpse, turning the face to the sky, and looks at him. “Don’t see that often in mages.”

     Cullen cracks a smile, grateful for the distraction. “I wanted to be a templar. But I came into my magic at twelve instead.”

     “Ooh. Ouch.” Fergus shakes his head. “The Maker has a strange sense of humor.”

     “Or a plan.”

     “Always the eternal optimist, eh?”

     Cullen snorts. He’s been called a lot of things over the years, but _optimist_ is nowhere near the most common.

     The conversation quiets as they turn their attention to the corpses strewn across the ground. None of the darkspawn are well-equipped. Their armor is a crude patchwork of materials forged together, seemingly with new additions attached as needed. The daggers are curved and black, the blades gleaming with some kind of poison.

     Cullen recognizes most as hurlocks, a kind of darkspawn that hideously resemble humans in stature. But the similarities end there. The noses have rotted away, leaving two gaping holes in the center of their faces. The tender flesh of their cheeks and lips have apparently been chewed away, revealing fanged teeth encased in black gums. And the eyes are like two little points of cold metal shining from a black abyss.

     An accompanying stench suffuses the area near their corpses: a carrion rot that somehow stinks of _wrongness_. Cullen’s stomach churns, and he covers his nose and mouth with the collar of his robes. Even the soldiers seem afraid to draw too close.

     Fergus covers his face as he kneels beside a corpse. He rubs the leather palm of his gauntlet over the scraps of metal buckled to the corpse’s withered torso. Flecks of drying blood fall off the metal, revealing a heraldry: a golden dragon, its wings folded and tail curled.

     The corpse is unlike the others. It is thinner, paler, mere skin clinging to bone. Thin wisps of hair cling to a white scalp still mottled with infected sores. Its cheeks and lips have been chewed away, leaving smears of reddish blood all over its face. The eyes are sunken and the nose has been repeatedly broken until its remnants are little more than squashed pulp in the center of its face.

     Fergus makes a strangled, nauseated noise and quickly draws away from the corpse. Rabbit guards his legs, looking at the corpse with suspicion.

     “Andraste’s blood,” Cullen swears. “That heraldry belongs to the Teyrnir of Gwaren, doesn’t it?”

     Fergus nods faintly. His face has gone starkly pale, and he keeps his gaze turned away from the corpse.

     Several soldiers creep closer to the corpse, but refuse to come anywhere near it. They soon turn away in disgust.

     “It probably stole the armor off a corpse,” Fergus mutters.

     “Or the armor used to be his,” one of the soldiers speaks up ominously.

     “You hear stories about those things— _ghouls_ , the Grey Wardens call them,” another supplies, exchanging dark glances with her fellows. “Soldiers that fall on the battlefield and succumb to the corruption. It drives them so mad, they’ll even kill their own friends and commanders without recognizing them.”

     “Looks like just another darkspawn to me,” skeptically remarks a third.

     No one wants to say it, but Cullen knows everyone is thinking the same thing: the king’s army and the darkspawn have clashed three times in the last month, and the darkspawn horde have returned with greater numbers every time. The appearance of the ghoul is probably not a coincidence.

     “This isn’t a weaving circle,” Fergus snaps, clearly unnerved. “We’re here to scout the wilderness and pick off stragglers. Fall in line. Let’s keep moving.”

#

The scouting party returns to the king’s camp after nightfall, sore from the recent skirmishes.

     Overlooking the valley stands the ruins of Ostagar: the skeletal bones of white towers and walls bridging the mouth of the Korcari Wilds. The walls are carved with weather-worn depictions of fearsome dragons and ancient magisters long dead. Its ruins are dotted with dozens of flickering campfires, colorful tents strewn in both the valley and along the lofty cliffs.

     The bulk of the king’s army and the Grey Wardens, serving as the king’s vanguard, camp in the valley. It is here Fergus dismisses his own men to join the rest of the knights of Highever, but he and Rabbit follow Cullen along the winding trail to the higher cliffs.

     “So, Enchanter. How do you do the…the magic-sword-thing?” Fergus questions as they walk, gesturing in a vague sword-shape. “I’ve never seen anyone do it.”

     Cullen smiles a little weakly at him. Fergus Cousland is a noble, the son of the Teyrn of Highever, and only slightly lower in rank than the King of Ferelden himself. But his friendliness, frank curiosity, and lack of apprehension towards his magic have made the last few weeks more bearable.

     “It’s not very common magic,” Cullen explains. “I taught myself out of a book.”

     Fergus raises his eyebrows, visibly impressed. “When this business with the darkspawn is over, you should come to Highever and show my son. He loves swords. Can’t get enough of them.”

     “I would need permission first, but a journey north would be welcome after all this…cold.” Cullen glances over the expansive frozen tundra. The Korcari Wilds seems to watch them from afar, black trees clawing towards the twin moons. He shivers and resumes ascending the trail to the high cliffs.

     A smaller camp dots the crumbling ruins on the cliffs. It is amidst these ruins that the most important minds argue and debate over the coming battles: King Cailan, Teyrn Loghain, the Warden-Commander, the Circle of Magi, the Chantry. The finest knights in the lands camp in the shadow of the Tower of Ishal, a white tower standing in the heart of the ruins.

     Cullen catches the whispers of several knights as they walk through the ruins.

     “…Warden-Commander came through earlier with recruits. Guess he should finally show up to stop the Blight.”

     “Who says it’s a Blight? The teyrn thinks it’s just a big darkspawn horde.”

     Fergus turns an inquisitive glance towards the campsite, still bustling with activity despite the late hour. “If the Warden-Commander has returned, he might have news of Highever.”

     Cullen frowns. “I wasn’t aware you were waiting for a message, my lord.”

     Fergus shakes his head. “My father is delayed. He has sent no word what kept him. Ah, there he is.”

     Cullen lingers behind, considering turning in at the Circle of Magi’s camp. But the discovery of the ghoul in Gwaren’s colors moves him to follow Fergus to the center of the ruin, where a large campfire burns brightest.

     The Warden-Commander warms his hands at the fire: a dark-skinned man with grey streaks running through his dark hair and a gold earring glittering in one ear. His eyes are so dark they are nearly black, but warm. He wears the same blue colors as the rest of his order, adorned with silverite griffins, but his uniform is lightly-armored. A dagger and a longsword are sheathed at his hips.

     A soldier stands beside him, his round face creased into a nervous frown. Cullen knows the look—from apprentices and young templars who have only recently taken their vows—and recognizes him as one of the recruits immediately.

     “Warden-Commander Duncan,” Fergus calls, catching the older man’s attention immediately. “Fergus Cousland.”

     “Ah, the son of the teyrn. An honor to meet you,” Duncan greets him politely—more politely than Cullen was expecting.

     There are all kinds of rumors about the Grey Wardens, whom are often everything from maleficarum to kinslayers. Their commander has a more noble bearing than Cullen was expecting.

     “I recognize you. Ser Jory, isn’t it? The victor of the tourney my parents held in honor of the Grey Wardens.” Fergus seems somewhat relieved to see the soldier at the Grey Warden’s side.

     Ser Jory salutes him with respect. “Yes, my lord, and it was my privilege to win.”

     “Warden-Commander, have you news of Highever?” Fergus asks, almost earnestly.

     “Your family was very hospitable.” Duncan smiles, and it makes him look old and tired. “The teyrna sends her love. And your brother…wishes you to know Castle Cousland will still be standing when you return home.”

     Fergus raises an incredulous brow. “That’s not what he said, is it?”

     Duncan’s lips curl into the ghost of a smile behind his short beard. “No, my lord. His original statement involves ale and, _ahem_ , wenches.”

     Cullen flushes crimson at the thought. Duncan seems to notice.

     “My brother is not as funny as he thinks he is.” Fergus rolls his eyes. “What of my father? He was supposed to depart within a week after I, but he and the rest of our soldiers are still not here.”

     Duncan regards him seriously. “My apologies, my lord. He was still at Castle Cousland when Ser Jory and I left. I am certain he will be here within a few days. Our small party moves quicker than him and his forces.”

     “Perhaps.” But Fergus doesn’t sound pleased in the slightest. “Thank you, Warden-Commander.” He takes his leave of them. Rabbit closely follows his heel, his short tail tucked close to his hindquarters and his head hanging low.

     Ser Jory struggles not to yawn. “I think I will turn in with the rest of the recruits. Good night, commander.”

     “Eat supper before you turn in. We will begin preparations bright and early tomorrow morning,” Duncan orders him as he leaves. He turns his attention to Cullen as they are left alone. “Is there something I can help you with, my young friend?”

     Cullen’s cheeks color at the word _young_. “‘Cullen,’ ser, of the Circle of Magi,” he introduces politely. “The First Enchanter sent me with the senior enchanters to aid the king’s army against the darkspawn.”

     Duncan looks fully at Cullen—and he immediately gets the sense that the man sees more than he lets on. His eyes are keen, but not probing. “You must be talented indeed, if Irving would trust to send you with the senior enchanters.”

     “Thank you, ser.” Cullen smiles a bit at the compliment. “Teyrn Loghain has me assisting the scouting party in the Korcari Wilds between battles, and today we found…a ghoul in Gwaren colors.”

     “Hmm. And you are certain it was a ghoul and not a hurlock?”

     “I can tell the difference.” Cullen swallows, suddenly feeling a bit bashful. “I read about the Blights in the tower. We have a lot of books on the subject.”

     “Interesting.” Duncan regards him thoughtfully for a moment, then crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “The taint of the darkspawn is poisonous. Men who do not immediately perish suffer a horrific fate and go mad. They become compelled to aid the darkspawn—compelled in the same manner as the darkspawn themselves. These ghouls are often kept to make repairs during the Blight.” His brow creases as he frowns. “I am sorry for the loss. It is a fate I would wish on no one else.”

     “Ser, do you think this is a Blight? Some think it’s an unusually large darkspawn raid.” Cullen hesitates. “All the books wrote about the archdemons that once led the darkspawn, but we haven’t seen any dragons in the Wilds.”

     For a moment, Cullen thinks he might have gone too far, but Duncan simply looks at him seriously and nods.

     “I do believe this is a Blight, and to prepare for anything less would be foolish. We must hold the darkspawn here and we cannot afford to underestimate our enemy. If the darkspawn breach the valley, all of Thedas may perish.”

     Cullen drops his gaze to the campfire, disquieted by the sentiment.

     The marching of armored soldiers interrupts their conversation: King Cailan, all bright hair and bright smiles and bright armor, arrives in advance of his personal vanguard. “Ho there, Duncan!” he calls.

     “I’ll leave you to your business,” Cullen politely excuses himself. The king has been unfailingly kind to everyone—even the mages—but he doesn’t want to overextend himself.

     Cullen leaves the warmth of the fire and walks in direction of the mages’ camp. The purple canopies are strung near the bridge to the Tower of Ishal and closely guarded by a pair of templars. Angered voices rise from somewhere inside, both of whom Cullen recognizes immediately.

     Most senior enchanters and the tranquil have turned in for the night, but two remain near the fire in the center of the camp. Wynne and Uldred—the seniormost mages—stare each other down from across the fire.

     They are the opposites of each other: Wynne is gentle and matronly, Uldred is fierce and rigid; her blue eyes are bright and her white hair is drawn from her face, his black eyes are shrewd and calculating and his scalp is shaven clean; she wears crimson robes embroidered in gold that fall to her feet, and he wears battlemage’s robes that reach his knees in a spiky fashion that has always reminded Cullen of Tevinter.

     “…were not brought here to be _torch-bearers_ , Wynne!” Uldred snarls. “The Revered Mother is dragging bloody _politics_ into this while darkspawn stand on our doorstep—”

     “And that is _exactly_ why this should wait!” Wynne retorts with the exasperated tone of a mother chastising a young child. “We are not in a position to argue with the Chantry while the darkspawn lurk about the Wilds. They must be attended to first.”

     “We cannot effectively eradicate the darkspawn if the Revered Mother would have us standing in the back rows, twiddling our thumbs!”

     “Her Reverence has never claimed that we should—”

     “She has been diminishing our authority since the moment we arrived, and neither you—nor anyone else—is willing to confront her!” Uldred spits, pointing an accusing finger at her. “The darkspawn care nothing about Chantry oversight. Neither should we.”

     Wynne stares at him, her lips pressed into a hard line. “We do not exist in a void, Uldred. Whatever happens here will follow us to the tower, and we must think about the good of all.”

     “‘The good of all.’ _Pah!_ Your attitude serves only yourself.” Uldred turns on his heel and storms out of the camp, his hands clenched into his fists and his black eyes narrowed with loathing.

     Wynne watches him leave with a heavy sigh.

     “Are you all right, Wynne?” Cullen asks as the camp settles into its normal bustle.

     “If Uldred sunk all of that anger into his conflict with the darkspawn, this battle would have been won already.” Wynne shakes her head in disappointment. Her blue eyes sweep over his muddied robes. “How did scouting go in the Wilds?”

     Cullen retreats to his tent and sinks down onto his bedroll. Wynne ducks inside after him and lingers near the entrance, watching him carefully.

     “There was a ghoul in the Wilds. It had Gwaren’s colors.” Cullen gazes at her, suddenly feeling exhausted. “The soldiers are worried about what that means for us.”

     “King Cailan wants to draw the darkspawn into a final battle. A grand battle that he expects will end the Blight before it can spread further.” Wynne’s cautious tone reveals her opinion of his plan. “Teyrn Loghain’s men discovered tunnels beneath the Tower of Ishal they fear lead into the Deep Roads. He is considering a mage to collapse them. I put your name forward.”

     It _should_ be an honor, but the thought of plunging into taint-slick tunnels reeking of foulness and corruption makes his skin crawl. Cullen frowns at the ground.

     “You’re strong enough to handle it, my dear,” she reassures him patiently.

     Cullen exhales slowly and nods. “Whatever needs to be done to prevent the darkspawn from pouring into the valley,” he murmurs, more to himself than to her.

     Wynne gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze, a familiar look of concern on her proud features. She has given him this look a lot since she took him on as her apprentice when he was twelve. Today it means _don’t push yourself so hard_. “Eat something before you meditate tonight.”

     “I will,” Cullen answers without looking at her. He hasn’t felt hungry in days—it’s more like _exhaustion_ , gnawing at his stomach.

     Wynne leaves his tent and closes the flap behind her, giving him a modicum of privacy. Cullen remains on his bedroll for a while longer. Every muscle in his body aches—not just physically, but mentally as well.

     Rather than leaving his tent in search of food, Cullen pulls out some leftover trail rations from his knapsack: twice-baked bread and dried strips of pork. He chews absently on the rations as he reads through his grimoire. The trail rations are enough to take the edge off his hunger, which is good enough for tonight.

     Finally, Cullen closes his grimoire and stows it in his knapsack. He crosses his long legs, straightens his back, and closes his eyes.

     The Veil in Ostagar is very thin. Demons are always there, clawing against the Veil, seeking a mage with a weak will…

      _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me_  
      _I shall embrace the light, I shall weather the storm_  
      _I shall endure_  
      _What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

     Cullen mentally recites the Canticle of Trials until a sense of peace settles over his body. His mind empties of all troubles and his muscles relax. All the sounds of the campsite begin to drift away…

     A scratching noise scurries across the ground.

     Cullen opens his eyes—for the briefest of seconds, there appears to be a mouse scurrying through the shadows. But he blinks again and it’s gone.

      _Probably just a rodent seeking crumbs,_ Cullen thinks, deciding to put his doubts of his mind and turn in for the night. Tomorrow will be another long day.


	2. The Smallest Of Deeds

The pale sun shines down on the bustling war camp.

     Cullen sits on the end of a spindly wooden bench near one of the fires, cradling a bowl of what appears to be pottage. The broth is thick and greyish and the vegetables have been boiled so long they’ve lost their shape, color, and texture. There is no bread or cheese today; rumor around the camp is the servants discovered blight on it and had to throw it all out.

     The bench creaks a little as a Grey Warden in heavy plate armor, silverite griffins gleaming on his chest, settles beside him. He stares down at the pottage with a grimace. Aside from the recruits that came through yesterday, he’s the youngest Warden that Cullen has seen. His tall and burly physique hunches beneath the weight of his armor, as if he’s still not accustomed to it; his features are softened with youth, a shadow of blond scruff cast over his jawline. In fact, he looks close to Cullen’s own age.

     Cullen wonders what would prompt someone so young to commit to a life with the Grey Wardens.

     The Warden catches him looking and offers an easy, apologetic smile. “Oh, you’re one of the mages, aren’t you? I can move if you’d like.”

     “Because you’re a Grey Warden?”

     “Because I used to be a templar. Or did the other one not tell you?” At Cullen’s blank look, he elaborates, “The angry one. The one with hair.”

     “Senior Enchanter Renault,” Cullen realizes, recalling the way the senior enchanter stormed back into the mages’ camp in a huff earlier this morning, grumbling about Wardens.

     “Yeah. You know, someone should tell him that if he keeps scowling like that, his face will get stuck that way,” the Warden jokes, waving a spoon at Cullen.

     “Don’t mind him,” Cullen replies, tucking into his own bowl. “He’s like that with everyone.”

     “Maybe his face is already stuck? I’d be grumpy too if I had to look like that all the time.” The Warden glances over his shoulder, then grins at Cullen. “Don’t tell him I said that, all right?”

     “You’re an odd man for a Warden,” Cullen notes before he can help himself, then flushes red as soon as the words come out of his mouth. “Er, sorry—”

     But the Warden simply waves off his apologies. “No, no. I hear it more often than you’d think. Or maybe _as_ often as you’d think. I’m Alistair, by the way.”

     “Cullen.” He pauses, thinking. “What is a man like you doing with the Grey Wardens?”

     Alistair shrugs. “When the Warden-Commander of Ferelden shows up on your doorstep and asks if you want to save the world, you don’t turn him _down_.”

     “That’s…one way of looking at it.”

     “What makes a mage want to squat in old ruins and eat bland stew and fight tainted monsters in the cold?”

     “It sounds so grand when you put it that way. But,” he allows, “if you want to know, I joined out of a desire to protect my homeland. The king sent out a call for mages, and I wanted to enlist.”

     Alistair raises his eyebrows. “Really? On purpose? I didn’t know mages were so patriotic—please don’t turn me into a toad,” he adds quickly.

     “That’s not even possible—no, never mind.” Cullen frowns at the memory of his last weeks in the tower. “I had to convince the first enchanter and the knight-commander of our tower to let me enlist. It was…an involved process. But I’ve read a lot of our books on the Blight. The darkspawn seemed so monstrous at the time, but pictures don’t even compare to the real thing. I couldn’t stand by and do nothing while they threatened to invade.”

     “You should see our copies. The senior Wardens add to them. Stuff of nightmares.” Alistair shudders.

     “Have you killed many?”

     “The other Wardens have me beat tenfold by now, but none of them are quite as effective at handling the emissaries as I am. Templar training is good for canceling out their magic. Not that the king cares,” Alistair adds darkly.

     Darkspawn emissaries are something like mages, but no apostate or maleficar has anything on them. There are rumors around the camp of emissaries that _spoke_ on the battlefield in a creepy, guttural voice. Cullen shivers. “His Majesty would not risk the tide turning against us. Surely he has a reason.”

     “Maker only knows what _that_ could be.”

     “Maker only knows what?” a deep voice questions from behind them, causing both young men to start.

     Alistair whirls around. “Duncan! That’s not fair, sneaking around the camp.”

     Duncan stands behind them, his careful expression disguising how much of the conversation he’d overheard. There is a certain fatigue to his posture, a shadow cast over his eyes, that makes it look as though he’s not sleeping well. “I hope you are not harassing the mages further, Alistair,” he remarks with familiarity. This is not the first time he’s chastised Alistair for this, Cullen gathers.

     “We were _gossiping_. Totally different,” Alistair answers, glancing at Cullen for support.

     “We were talking about the darkspawn, Warden-Commander,” Cullen agrees, earning himself a relieved smile from Alistair.

     “Ah. I’m afraid I must end your conversation here. Alistair, I need you to gather the recruits and meet me near the king’s tent. All four of you will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to begin preparations for the Joining.”

     Alistair squares his shoulders and scowls. “Oh, am I being trusted with a measure of responsibility now?”

     “Yes. You are the youngest. It is your responsibility,” Duncan replies in a flat tone that leaves no room for response.

     “Fine. But I want in the battle tonight.” Alistair rises to his feet and marches through the courtyard, scarfing down the rest of his pottage as he went.

     Duncan watches him leave before turning his attention to Cullen. “Senior Enchanter Uldred and I will need to collaborate once the recruits head into the Wilds. Do you know where he might be?”

     Cullen shakes his head. “Sorry, Warden-Commander. If I see him, I’ll let him know.” Although he doesn’t relish the idea of having to speak to Uldred about anything.

     “Soon, if you can,” Duncan replies as an elven messenger approaches, calling for his attention. The elf mentions something about a crumbling tower as the pair disappear into the crowds.

     Cullen finishes the cold pottage before he marches to the mages’ camp. The purple canopies of their tents rises high above the ever-pressing tide of soldiers and servants. War hounds bark from the king’s kennels, trying to get closer to the kaddis-painted hounds lying near the Ash Warriors. The leader of the Ash Warriors—a burly man in dark leathers with paint streaked across his face—is arguing with another messenger about the Wilds.

     A thin wooden stage rises above the crowd, where the Revered Mother stands in flowing gold robes. She extends her withered hands to the sky as she utters a prayer. A dozen knights are on bent knee beneath her, their hands clasped together and their heads bowed. One of the youngest is shaking, his lips moving rapidly, and he rocks himself back and forth as he prays.

     Cullen passes near the gold and purple tents of King Cailan and Teyrn Loghain, respectively, and overhears a familiar voice as he passes in front of the teyrn’s tent.

     “…will speak again once the battle is ended,” Uldred remarks as he emerges from the tent.

     Teyrn Loghain steps out after him. His appearance is a stark contrast to the thin, shrewd-eyed mage. The teyrn must be fifty but wears it well: clean-shaven, tall and broad-shouldered, black hair tied in thin braids, armored head-to-toe in plate armor that has been well cared for.

     Cullen comes to an abrupt halt when Uldred looks directly at him, casting a withering glare that would reduce an apprentice to tears.

     Teyrn Loghain dispassionately answers, “Maker watch over you until then, Senior Enchanter.” He marches towards the northwestern ruins without acknowledging Cullen.

     “What do you want, Rutherford?” Uldred snaps.

     Cullen opens his mouth—wanting to put him in his place, for once, and remind him that _everyone_ is under strain. Instead, what comes out is a less-than-rebellious, “Duncan will want you near the king’s tent.”

     Uldred simply lets out a sharp exhale and takes his leave without another word.

     When Cullen returns to the mages’ camp, he finds Wynne meditating in front of the campfire alone. She sits cross-legged, her robes pooling on the ground around her, with her hands clasped above her thighs. Her chin is raised and her eyes are closed.

     Cullen quietly settles on the ground and stares into the campfire. After weeks of near-nonstop walking, it seems strange to sit and do nothing while the army hastily prepares a final march against the darkspawn. He closes his eyes and tries to meditate, but anxieties persist.

     Wynne opens her eyes a while later, the warmth emanating from her fades as she draws back to herself. She inhales and exhales slowly before she acknowledges him. “Fergus Cousland came by for you a while ago. The teyrn is sending him and his men into the Korcari Wilds until after the battle. He wanted you to know that it was a pleasure working with you.”

     “He’s a good man. He’ll make a good teyrn.” Cullen smiles a little at the message, then sobers at the thought of Uldred.

     “Thinking about tonight?” Wynne guesses.

     Cullen considers mentioning Uldred’s visit with Teyrn Loghain, but decides against it. “King Cailan is supposedly pushing hard for a final battle against the darkspawn and end the Blight tonight.”

     “The Blight will only end when the Archdemon itself has been cut down.” Wynne frowns. “It has not yet made its appearance.”

     “I think everyone is ready for this to end.” He pauses. “The other Blights lasted for decades or centuries. I can’t imagine fighting the darkspawn for that long.”

     “It is a luxury previous generations have died to provide: each Blight since the first has shortened in duration. We can only hope the trend will continue and this Blight is shorter than the last, but even the Fourth Blight lasted twelve years.”

      _Twelve years_. The idea of fighting darkspawn until his thirties—if he survived that long—is strangely sobering. There was a time in Cullen’s life when he thought he would be a career templar, possibly married, by then. Such a life is closed to him now.

     Another messenger trades words with one of the templars stationed outside the camp. The templar sends her on her way and turns towards the two mages. “Enchanter Rutherford,” he calls, “Teyrn Loghain wants to see you at the strategy meeting.”

     Wynne flashes Cullen a smile he does not understand: it’s meant to be comforting, but she also looks relieved for some reason.

     Cullen rises to his feet, dusting off his robes. He inexplicably feels nervous, despite weeks of scouting and battles against the darkspawn. Teyrn Loghain is a more intimidating man than any darkspawn. He exhales slowly, murmurs a quiet, “Here I go,” and leaves the mages’ camp.

     The strategy meeting is tucked away in the northwestern ruins in a secluded alcove that provides as much privacy as crumbling ruins could provide. Teyrn Loghain, King Cailan, and Duncan gather around a sturdy wooden table with maps spread out between them. A scowling elf stands beside Duncan.

     Cullen approaches the table looking braver than he feels—only to be intercepted by the Revered Mother, her gold robes flaring around her, flanked by templars.

     “Your presence is not needed here, _mage_ ,” the Revered Mother spits. “Return to your camp and await orders.”

     Cullen’s mouth opens before his brain forms a coherent response. She seemed so much nicer when she was praying with the soldiers. “Y-Your Reverence,” he stutters, “I was summoned here by the teyrn.”

     “The Maker knows your lies. I would have been told if the Circle of Magi was needed at this meeting,” she retorts venomously. She thrusts out a bony finger in the direction of the mages’ camp. “Templars, take this mage back to his camp.”

     A small part of him is prepared to shrivel up and relent when the templars circle around her, their gleaming eyes fixated on him, when King Cailan approaches.

     “That will not be needed, Your Reverence,” King Cailan interrupts, raising a hand to halt the templars. His golden hair and golden armor shine like a beacon in the dim, greyish ruins, but his expression has lost its bright enthusiasm. Now he smiles with the practiced smile of a king—the kind that leaves no room for rebuttal.

     “The crown has no authority over the templars.” The Revered Mother’s tone is thin and weak beneath the scrutiny of the king. She inhales slowly and smiles at him in a way that does not reach her dark eyes. “The mage can remain if he speaks the truth, Your Highness,” she decides and returns to the strategy table with her head held aloft.

     Cullen almost sighs in relief. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

     King Cailan smiles at him—genuinely, this time. “You must be Enchanter Rutherford. Wynne said a lot of good things about you. I trust you’re prepared to face the darkspawn in the tunnels below?”

     Cullen decides against correcting the king, despite his desire to point out that he hasn’t been promoted to enchanter yet. He knows the king means to be polite. “I’ll do what’s needed to win the battle against the darkspawn.”

     King Cailan beams down at him. “Excellent! We’ll need that sort of attitude if we’re going to win this. Tonight we turn the tide against the darkspawn and end the Blight. Our victory will be glorious.”

     Cullen nods. The king possesses an enthusiasm that makes him want to agree, despite his reservations that _anything_ is simple where darkspawn are involved. He follows the king to the strategy meeting, keeping his thoughts to himself.

     “As I was saying,” Teyrn Loghain begins sharply as they approach, “my scouts found tunnels running beneath the Tower of Ishal. The darkspawn could invade those tunnels and overrun the tower if they wanted to. We must not give them the opportunity. Enchanter Rutherford and Warden Tarimel will make the descent with several of my soldiers to collapse those tunnels.”

     “Enchanter, this is Tarimel, a senior Grey Warden,” Duncan introduces the elf standing beside him. “He will be joining you on this endeavor.”

     Tarimel is tall and willowy, clad in nimble leathers with silverite griffons glittering on his chest. A dark blue hood is drawn over his head, but strands of his reddish hair fall in front of his ears. There is something about the glint of his wide eyes and the lines around his mouth that make him look far older than he ought to be.

     Cullen salutes him. “I look forward to working with you, Warden Tarimel.”

     Tarimel grunts in his direction.

     “Moving on.” Teyrn Loghain leans over the map and points to the eastern ruins. “My men are stationed in the Tower of Ishal and will grant you access inside. It’s important that these tunnels are collapsed before nightfall.”

     Cullen inspects the maps and notices the lack of any tunnels marked beneath the Tower of Ishal. “We’ll need maps of the underground passages. The tunnels that can be brought down without damaging the infrastructure need to be marked. We could also use reports of anything that might be useful below ground, or any enemies we might come upon.”

     When he raises his gaze, he notices the group staring at him. Even Teyrn Loghain _almost_ looks approving. Cullen blushes starkly.

     “Maps can be provided,” Teyrn Loghain allows, his cold tone thawing a little towards him. “You are unlikely to find anything useful in those decrepit storerooms, however.”

     The Revered Mother, however, scowls deeply. “We should send templars down there with him. There is no telling what his magic might do if he loses control.”

     “I trust him,” King Cailan replies evenly. “The mages would not have agreed to send him into the tunnels if they thought he would be dangerous to the wrong people.”

     Cullen is becoming increasingly grateful for the king’s support. “The only danger in the tunnels will be the darkspawn and spiders, if there are any. So long as the soldiers are comfortable following orders—”

     At this, the Revered Mother nearly sputters with indignant rage. “Andraste said, ‘Magic must serve man’!” she snarls. “A mage will not be in charge of men in this endeavor. Send someone else.”

     “He’s not in charge,” Tarimel counters, speaking up for the first time. His voice is deep and snide, and he looks at the Revered Mother with nothing less than contempt. “I am. And I say the soldiers listen to the mage or get crushed under rock. Their choice.”

     The Revered Mother glares at him.

     “Then it is settled,” Teyrn Loghain decides, firmly ending the discussion there. “Warden Tarimel will lead a small party underground and collapse the tunnels beneath the Tower of Ishal. Afterwards, they will protect the tower during the battle while my men handle the beacon.”

     Suddenly it becomes clear why Wynne put him forward. “I’m not participating in the battle?”

     “No,” Teyrn Loghain answers shortly. “You and Warden Tarimel will guard the Tower of Ishal. King Cailan’s forces will draw the darkspawn into the field while my men hide under cover. My soldiers at the tower will light the beacon, signaling my forces to emerge and flank the darkspawn—”

     “We’d agreed the beacon would be handled by the Grey Wardens,” King Cailan interrupts sharply.

     Teyrn Loghain sighs. This is clearly an argument they’ve had before. “The beacon is a simple task. My men will handle it.”

     “But it’s vital. We should send the Grey Wardens.” King Cailan glances at Duncan for support.

     “I have one man in mind to handle the deed,” Duncan supplies.

     “It is not necessary to need Grey Wardens to handle the beacon,” Teyrn Loghain retorts.

     King Cailan stares at him in a tacit refusal to back down. “We will need the best. The Grey Wardens are the best.”

     Teyrn Loghain pinches the bridge of his nose with his gloved fingers, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly through his nose. He finally drops his hand and looks at Cullen and Tarimel. “You two—your part in this is over. Go prepare.”

     Cullen is relieved for the dismissal. He and Tarimel leave the table as King Cailan and Teyrn Loghain resume arguing over the beacon.

     “Be ready and at the tower within the hour,” Tarimel tells him sharply as they diverge paths.

     Cullen nods and returns to the mages’ camp, planning a list of all the things he might need to collapse tunnels on darkspawn: his staff, at least two bottles of lyrium, some poultices or even elfroot if the quartermaster is low…

     Wynne is still beside the fire when Cullen returns. Her demeanor is more firm and resilient than before he left for the meeting—and he wonders if she knew Cullen would feel the betrayal currently burning in the center of his chest.

     “You knew this meant I would have to sit the battle out, didn’t you?” Cullen bursts, forgetting all about his plans upon seeing her.

     Wynne’s brilliant blue eyes snap up to his and she, for the briefest of moments, appears startled by his outburst. She gathers her composure as she rises to her feet, assuming a stone-faced exterior. “Teyrn Loghain sought volunteers. I believed—and still believe—you are the best candidate,” she explains evenly.

     “But not Renault, the tower’s foremost expert on primal magic? Not Uldred, the first mage to volunteer—”

     “Not them and not anyone else.” Wynne holds his gaze. “I gave my honest advice when the teyrn sought it. You could have chosen to turn it down, and blaming _me_ solves nothing.”

     “What sort of choice is that? What mage—what _person_ —would turn down a request from the Hero of River Dane?”

     “You have more control over this than you seem to think,” Wynne replies sharply. “For the Maker’s sake, you are nineteen and a Harrowed mage. You are not a timid apprentice anymore. Act like it.”

     Cullen blanches. “And you’re not my—” He cuts himself off mid-sentence, but she apparently knows what he meant to say.

     “…Your mother?” Wynne finishes for him.

     Cullen stares at the ground, feeling guilty.

     Wynne approaches him, her hardened demeanor softening a touch. “No. I am not. But I have been guiding you for seven years—first through your apprenticeship, and now here on the field of battle. It’s true that I would never send you into danger that you could not handle, but you must understand that war is not glorious. We all must handle our part, whether it be fighting on the battlefield or collapsing dank tunnels underground.”

     “‘War is not glorious’?” Cullen repeats with a frown. “This is about King Cailan, isn’t it? You don’t think he can stop the darkspawn in a final battle tonight, do you?”

     Wynne sighs. She has always been able to see through him, but he can see through her as easily. “I believe that stopping the darkspawn will not be as…as simple as the king apparently believes,” she explains herself quietly. “The Grey Wardens are concerned, and I believe the rest of us should be concerned as well.”

     Her admittance is disquieting. Cullen gazes at her for a moment, suddenly filled with an inexplicable fear that everything might not turn out all right after all. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I let my temper get the better of me. I shouldn’t have.”

     “No, you shouldn’t,” Wynne agrees coolly. In a warmer tone, she adds, “We are not golems, Cullen. We make mistakes and allow our emotions to get the better of us at times.”

     Cullen nods, but the fear lingers. “I should…I should prepare for tonight.”

     “Maker keep you safe tonight,” Wynne tells him.

      _Maker keep you safe tonight_. The last time Wynne spoke the phrase was two years ago, when Cullen was seventeen years old and faced with the prospect of his Harrowing. It was a nightmarish ordeal that ended when he awoke on the cold stone floor and vomited on the boots of the templar prepared to kill him. She hasn’t used that deliberate phrasing since.

     Until tonight.

     “And you,” Cullen says and forces himself to prepare for the descent into the tower.


	3. Song In The Stillness

The Tower of Ishal towers over skeletal ruins, a testament to dwarven architecture and a reminder of how far south the Tevinter Imperium once reached.

     Overgrown weeds thick with deathroot and elfroot cluster around the foundation, winding through cracks in the stone. Ancient carvings of monstrous dragons peer down from their lofty designs, a snake-like tongue flicking through rows of fanged teeth.

     Warden Tarimel is already there with four soldiers when Cullen arrives. Tarimel sits on the stone steps, his posture closed and his hood casting a shadow over a visible scowl. Three men and one woman stand together, talking quietly. They must be in their late twenties or early thirties, all able-bodied and bearing the draconic heraldry of the Gwaren teyrnir.

     The darkspawn in the Wilds flashes to the front of Cullen’s mind when he looks at their shields. He tears his eyes away from them as he approaches the Warden. “My apologies for the delay.”

     Tarimel pulls himself to his feet and retrieves a bow and quiver slung near the stairs. He spares Cullen a glance as he gestures for the group to follow him. “Come on.”

     The first floor is spacious and filled with the presence of the teyrn’s soldiers. Anxiety clouds the atmosphere as the soldiers nervously whisper to each other. The warm glow of pyres cast long, spidery shadows over cobweb-strewn crates and crumbling stone. Cullen catches the word “darkspawn” on the lips of the soldiers.

     Hushed conversation falls completely silent as they pass through. The soldiers watch them curiously but do not approach.

     Tarimel leads them through the corridors and stops at a small room just before the staircase to the second floor: the floor is almost entirely sunken into a pitch-black tunnel with a stale stench permeating the air all around it. Molding crates packed into the corner are free of dust and cobwebs, showing the soldiers had to shove them aside to clear a path to the staircase.

     Someone had placed a ladder against the mouth of the tunnel, new and roughly-hewn. Most likely one of the soldiers, Cullen decides.

     “Weapons out,” Tarimel orders briskly.

     One of the soldiers flashes the tunnel a nervous glance. “What if we’re ambushed by darkspawn?”

     “We won’t be.”

     “But what if we _are_?”

     “We won’t be,” Tarimel repeats in a tone that ends the conversation.

     None of the soldiers look comforted.

     Tarimel slings the bow and quiver over his shoulders and swings down onto the ladder, gripping the sides and sliding down into darkness.

     “I don’t like this,” the soldier murmurs as he vanishes out of sight.

     “This is important.” Cullen looks at the four nervous soldiers. “Duncan sent his best—if not the most charismatic—and we must trust the Grey Wardens’ judgment. Teyrn Loghain has not sent us to our deaths; he’s sent us on an important mission he expects to be finished.”

     The soldiers exchange dubious glances before they nod, looking somewhat more reassured.

     Cullen climbs down the ladder with his staff clutched tightly in one hand. The descent is not far, but the change in atmosphere is rapid and disconcerting. Foul air fills the tunnels and everything is swallowed in black. A sense of _wrongness_ makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge.

     Tarimel waits in the darkness, peering into the blackness, as the soldiers follow after Cullen and huddle together in the dark.

     Cullen summons a wisp. The little ball of green light, barely capable of thought, bounces through the air around him.

     One of the soldiers start at the sight. “What is that?” he hisses, pointing at the wisp. “Is it a demon?”

     “It’s harmless,” Cullen reassures him. “It’s only here to give us a bit of light. We can keep our hands free for weapons.”

     That seems to placate them. One of the soldiers put his hand on his handle, and it seems to give him a modicum of comfort.

     “Keep it back there, mage. I can see better in the dark,” Tarimel calls over his shoulder. He draws the coiled maps from a hidden pocket within his cloak and unravels it. Tarimel looks over the map and begins to walk forward. “The first tunnel is this way.”

     Cullen and the soldiers follow the Warden into the tunnels. The wisp sheds a soft green light that shines eerily on the stone walls. These tunnels are overgrown with weeds and blanketed with moss. The stone is damp and their shuffling footfalls echo strangely in the distance.

     Tarimel remains a distance ahead of them, following the map to the first location. The rest peer into the darkness, alert for signs of darkspawn. Cullen tries not to remember the disturbing way the darkspawn often manifest from shadows.

     They seem to walk for ages, but it’s impossible to tell time below ground. Cullen’s legs are beginning to ache when Tarimel finally comes to a stop and points at one of the tunnels. The wisp shines its light, revealing an ascending slope that curves out of sight. He can feel a draft that disturbs the otherwise stagnant air.

     “Right there. Take it down, mage.” Tarimel rolls up the map and sticks it back into that secretive pocket.

     Cullen sends the wisp deeper into the tunnels, away from his target, and finds a collapsed interior wall. The stone has rolled out into the corridor. He bids the wisp to linger there. “The rest of you, get behind that rock.”

     The soldiers obey his order without a word. Tarimel stands behind them, bow drawn and arrow held in place.

     Cullen stands in front of their makeshift barricade and gathers fire magic in his free hand. It flares brightly—briefly illuminating the stone tunnel and all the silvery cobwebs and black grime on the walls—and condenses itself in his fist. He flings it down the tunnel, followed by two more—

      _WHAM._

     The fireballs crash into the tunnels and bring it down in a rain of rock that shakes the foundation all around them and sends a wall of dust rushing straight at them. Cullen covers his face as bits of rock and dust fling past them. His exposed skin is stinging when the dust settles. What was once an open tunnel has been utterly barricaded by rock.

     For a moment, no one breathes.

     “Weapons out!” Tarimel commands. “Darkspawn!”

     Cullen whirls around—daggers fly from the shadows—

     One of the soldiers cries out and goes down, gurgling blood.

     The darkened tunnel comes alive with battle. Soldiers clash against the darkspawn, surrounding them from deeper inside. Tarimel hits one of the bigger ones with his bow, then withdraws a dagger, the blade glinting by wisp light, and shoves it deep into the throat of another.

     Cullen summons the shining blade and charges into battle. Cloaking himself with magic, he feels himself pass straight through the chaos—a genlock in crude leathers lashes out at him, but the daggers pass through—and manifests on the other side. He whirls around, driving the blade through its blade. The tip erupts from its chest, spraying blood and gore on the other side. He kicks off the body and swings at a taller hurlock, cleaving its head from its shoulders.

     Tarimel seems to disappear from view, and the tunnel becomes crowded with the three soldiers clumsily fighting the darkspawn. Another genlock appears behind Cullen—

     An arrow sings as it flies down the tunnel and lodges itself in the genlock’s eye, snapping its head back and sending the body sprawling onto the ground. Cullen’s heart seems to be hammering in his throat, sped by the terror of narrowly dodging the genlock’s blade.

     The battle subsides quickly as the darkspawn fall. Corpses of genlock rogues—small, boulder-shaped darkspawn with lips peeled back from reddish teeth and spikes protruding from their chins—pile at his feet. Silence settles around them, but now it seems as oppressive as the stagnant air.

     A quiet wheezing noise catches Cullen’s attention: the first soldier struck down is still alive, clutching desperately at the hollow near his collarbone. The light of the wisp reveals blood leaking from his mouth and throat. Gurgling noises tell Cullen that the soldier is drowning in his own blood as it fills up his lungs.

     “Maker’s blood,” swears one of the soldiers.

     Cullen drops to his knees behind the fallen soldier and extends his hands. “I don’t know if I can heal him,” he admits. His talents with healing have never compared to Wynne’s.

     Tarimel squats on the ground beside him. He takes the soldier’s back and reaches to the small of his back, beneath his cloak.

     The soldier looks helpless. A flash of steel catches Cullen’s eye—he jerks back just as Tarimel drives it deep into the soldier’s side, through a weak spot beneath his armpit. The soldier convulses and gurgles something, then collapses. Tarimel pulls the dagger out, wipes the blood on his leather trousers, and sheathes it once more.

     “What the fuck?” snarls the female soldier. “Why did you kill him?”

     Tarimel straightens upright. “That’s the closest to mercy you’ll get in these tunnels if the darkspawn get you.”

     The soldiers fall silent.

     Cullen puts a hand over his chest in a futile attempt to calm his rapidly beating heart. The soldier is dead, that helpless look preserved on his features beneath his helmet. He manages to calm his nerves long enough to close the soldier’s eyes and rise to his feet.

     “The darkspawn know we’re here now.” Tarimel looks into the darkened tunnels. “We have to keep moving.”

     No one objects. They continue on in silence.

#

Hours seem to pass as they progress deeper into the darkened tunnels.

     Tarimel guides them through the tunnels with the map, pointing out those which are safe to collapse. The darkspawn have made considerable progress into the labyrinth, proving Teyrn Loghain’s fears about the battle correct. Cullen collapses several more and they continue on silently.

     Black grime shines on the walls in the deeper tunnels and cobwebs dangle from the corners, so thick in some places they appear entirely white. The first cobwebs are smaller and innocent, but they gradually increase in size and frequency.

     “Spiders are drawn to places where the Veil is thin,” Cullen speaks up, breaking the silence. His entire body aches, both physically and mentally, and his robes are splattered with blood. All he can smell—and has been able to smell for a while—is the foul stench of corruption, blood, and stagnant air.

     “Mmhm.” Tarimel glances up from the map in his hands. He remains in the darkness, always ahead of the group, beyond the light. All Cullen can see are the glittering scales of his tabard from the rear. “We see them in the Deep Roads. Big bastards.”

     “How big?” whispers one of the soldiers.

     “They eat the ‘spawn,” Tarimel replies without looking back. “Sort of nice until the taint corrupts them. Then they go mad and try to eat _us_.”

     “They’re vulnerable to fire. I can handle them,” Cullen adds, and the soldiers seem to relax a little.

     Tarimel stops at a large wooden door. He remains beside it, quietly, with his face hovering close to the wood. “’Spawn on the other side,” he whispers after a moment. “Weapons ready.” He pulls open the door very slowly, while Cullen and the soldiers crowd the tunnel behind him, and creeps into the room—

     Cullen hears the switch a fraction of a second before anything happens—only enough time to begin casting the barrier—before fire spews forth from the ground and consumes the entire entrance.

     The fire is searing hot and blinding, whiting out his vision until his only conscious thoughts are to keep channeling his magic into the shield. Flames steal the breath from his lungs; the fire crashes against the ceiling and ignites a thick canopy of gossamer strands. The entire ceiling seems to go up in flames all at once.

     There’s an outcry—bodies hit the floor behind him and a hand closes on the hem of his robes, jerking him towards the ground.

     The initial fireball dissipates quickly, but the new fire spreads across the ceiling, devouring thick, ropy strands of spider webs and illuminating an enormous subterranean chamber. The heat is searing. Cullen opens his eyes, but his gaze is streaked with white, making it impossible to see—

     He manages to see a cloak on the ground, flames dancing all over the clock, thin legs stretched out underneath. Tarimel. Cullen reaches out and summons an ice spell—it hits the cloak and quenches the flames.

     The soldiers are scrambling back out to the tunnels, but Cullen hauls himself forward on his elbows and grabs Tarimel by the boot. The elf is taller than him but lighter; Cullen manages to drag him into the corridor.

     Hands grab Cullen by the arms, dragging him away from the inferno. Smoke clouds the ceilings in the tunnel and bring tears to his eyes. He reaches back for Tarimel and hauls him out of the chamber, then slams the door shut. They can all still hear the roaring of the fire on the other side of the door.

     “Maker’s balls, the Warden is dead,” one of the soldiers breathes.

     Cullen pushes Tarimel onto his back, blinking stinging tears from his eyes, and leans over him. He cannot hear any breathing.

     “What the fuck happened?” another soldier wheezes. “There was—fuck, there was fire _everywhere_.”

     “Trap,” gasps another between hacking coughs.

     Cullen pays the soldiers no mind; his attention is focused on the unconscious elf. He raises himself onto his knees and holds his hands above Tarimel’s still body. Tarimel’s entire face is burned red and raw, his eyebrows are gone, his lips are severely burnt, and his hair is singed. But the worst of the burns are on his arms, where it melted the metal and leather and fused it to his raw skin. He must have covered his face when the trap was triggered.

     Cullen’s heart hammers against his chest as he pours his magic into Tarimel’s body. In his mind, he repeats every prayer he knows, begging the Maker and Andraste both not to take the Warden from them. Golden light flares beneath his palms and drops into the Warden’s body like rain.

     The soldiers fall silent again as he works, but no change comes over Tarimel.

     “Mage, I think he’s dead,” the female soldier whispers at last. “What the Void are we supposed to do now?”

     “No, no.” Cullen grits his teeth, refusing to relent. “We _need_ him. The Maker wouldn’t—”

     Tarimel suddenly lurches onto his side, coughing and sputtering, and vomits saliva all over the floor. He sags back onto the ground, his entire body racked with laborious breaths. His fingers dig into his melted gloves. “Fuck, get it off, it melted on my hands—” he rasps, tearing at the boiled leather and stopping only when it rips his raw flesh.

     Cullen closes his hands around the melted gloves, summoning a thin layer of frost. The heat permeates the spell and flushes hot against his naked palms. “It’s gonna hurt,” he warns.

     “Just get it _off_ ,” Tarimel growls.

     Cullen focuses beyond the pain in his hands and chills the gauntlets. The melted gauntlets cool and solidify beneath the spell, then he reaches underneath and begins to work them off Tarimel’s hands. Scraps of leather come off, revealing raw red skin, bright and shiny beneath the light of the wisp. The leather comes away with thin layers of skin and hair stuck to it.

     Tarimel finally sits upright. His hood falls back, revealing burnt red hair still knotted at a ponytail at the back of his head. He holds out his hands, still breathing deeply. “There’s a—a balm in my cloak. Next to the map,” he grits out. His voice is so dry it might break.

     Cullen searches through the folds of his cloak and finds a large pocket near the bottom on the inside, holding the curled map, bottled red balm, and several poultices. He pulls out the balm and uncorks it. “That cloak of yours is becoming more and more useful,” he murmurs as he dips his fingers into the balm and scoops some out.

     Tarimel lets out a dry laugh. “I can’t do quivers and packs. Comes in handy.”

     Cullen leans over him and smooths a thick layer of reddish paste. Tarimel sucks in his breath through his teeth. His body tenses, and the muscles of his forearms strain against his glistening red flesh. Cullen continues to smooth on the paste without acknowledging the elf’s pain.

     “Brought it for the emissaries. They love their fire.” Tarimel makes a disapproving noise. “Can’t fucking believe I walked into a trap.”

     “You didn’t know it was there.”

     “I _should_. I know better.”

     The balm tingles on Cullen’s finges when he withdraws. He turns his hands over and looks at his palms: the flesh is red and angry, threatening to blister, burnt from holding onto the melted leather.

     Tarimel looks at him. His eyelashes have been burnt off, making his eyes look wider and naked, and the whites of his eyes are deeply reddened. “Thanks,” he whispers hoarsely.

     Cullen smiles, despite the pain. “You’re welcome.”

     “But that was stupid. If something like that happens again, you leave me behind. You could’ve _died_.”

     Cullen’s smile drops. “And leave you to die in there?”

     “I can’t bring down tunnels with a bow and arrows, and we have no explosives. We can’t take chances,” Tarimel reminds him sharply. His raw, blistered face crumples with thought. “Everyone take a moment to breathe. Then we keep going.”

     Cullen wants to protest, but he knows Tarimel is right. The battle is due to start within hours, as best as he can tell underground. And now they know darkspawn are crawling in these tunnels and pose a huge threat. They have to finish their task.

     As the soldiers seat themselves on the dirty floor, Cullen settles against the wall and uncorks one of the vials of lyrium. He drains it all, and it rushes through his body like adrenaline. The contours of the tunnels seem sharper, the light of the wisp ringed in a golden halo, and the pain of his burns fade.

#

After a brief break, they continue deeper into the tunnels.

     The chamber with the trap—now sprung—is swathed in darkness and thick with black smoke. His wisp’s green light shines on the ceiling, blackened and burned, and illuminates shrunken and shriveled black bodies. Some resemble humans and at least one is a genlock.

     They cover their mouths and noses as they pass through, but Cullen can still smell and taste the acrid stench even through his sleeve. Stinging tears rise to his eyes as they pass through. Among the wreckage are his and Tarimel’s weapons: the staff and bow were dropped during the chaos and reduced to ash by the fire.

     The fat blackened bodies of spiders lie on the ground, their long legs curled into their bellies, with tendrils of smoke wafting from their corpses. Cullen’s stomach churns at their size: dead on the ground, the spiders are larger than a mabari hound.

     Cullen estimates that Tarimel’s body must be a fourth covered in burns, with the worst centered on his hands and face. It should slow him, at least, but Tarimel continues into the tunnels with the map in his blistered hands.

     The soldiers shuffle quietly behind him. It seems Cullen’s barrier protected them from the blast. Regret shadows his mind; he wishes he could’ve extended it to protect Tarimel from the fire.

     They continue into the tunnels. Tarimel finds the nearest, perhaps a hundred feet from the trap that nearly killed him. Cullen collapses the tunnel with a series of fireballs. His skin prickles with magic, and the lyrium makes him feel alert. The fireballs flare brighter than before, tinged with white and blue in the center, and the stone comes down with a wave of dust and chipped rock that rushes over him.

      _SHKREEEEEE._

     An awful shrieking noises rings out in the corridor, deafening Cullen to any other noises. He cringes and throws his hands over his ears. The soldiers are stunned, but Tarimel has his dagger in one hand.

     A gangly, monstrous creature manifests behind one of the soldiers—she’s lifted entirely from the ground, its dagger protruding from her chest, and it throws her into the wall like a rag doll.

     Cullen recovers from his shock first, sending a series of vibrant purple bolts cascading down the corridors. They dart between the soldiers and slam into the darkspawn’s chest, throwing it backwards.

     “More incoming!” Tarimel cries, his voice cracking, only a moment before two more appear all around them.

     Cullen recognizes their lanky limbs and lipless maws, revealing rows of pointed teeth, beneath an iron helmet that encases almost their entire heads from depictions in books. Known as _sharlocks_ , the texts refer to them as “shrieks” for that Maker-forsaken wail they emit the moment before they strike.

     Two shrieks manifest in the middle of the group—rather than the outside striking in, like the other darkspawn assassins—and lash out with blades bound to their greyish, rotting hands. One of the soldier is struck—his head is forced back, blood spurting from his throat, and he makes an awful gurgling noise before he collapses onto the ground.

     Cullen lashes out instinctively—only aware the magical blade is clutched in his fist when its light cuts through the darkness, blazing brighter than before—and grazes the shriek’s bare shoulder. Black ichor drips down its skin, but the shriek whirls around without acknowledging the wound, its bare foot catching Cullen in the back of the head.

     Slamming into the wall knocks the wind out of him. Cullen slides to the ground, his lungs straining for breath and his nose throbbing; he manages to roll out of the way just as a wicked dagger drives into the ground, where his body lay only a moment before. He thrusts out a hand—a shock of ice catches the shriek around the center, solidifying around its naked legs, and pins it to the spot. Cullen pushes himself to his feet and drives the sword into the side of its rib cage, rupturing its heart.

     The shriek convulses and collapses, emitting another high-pitched wail that leaves his ears ringing.

     Cullen turns towards the group and sees Tarimel mouthing something—no, _shouting_ something, but he is nearly deaf from the shrieks—a moment before the gangly darkspawn manifests behind him and drives a dagger into the small of his back.

     Time seems to slow: it takes a moment for realization to cross Tarimel’s raw features, the darkspawn begin to jerk the dagger out of his body, for magic to manifest in Cullen’s hand without a conscious thought. He sends the vibrant purple arrows soaring down the corridor—they strike the shriek with enough force to thrust it into the wall behind him, sending the shriek crumpling to the ground.

     Cullen dashes down the crumbling tunnel, ignoring the ringing in his ears and the throbbing in his nose. Tarimel slumps to the ground. Only one soldier remains, and he’s on the ground, completely white, his eyes bulging.

     “Warden!” Cullen gasps as he catches Tarimel. He drops to his knees, supporting Tarimel across his lap, one arm beneath the elf’s shoulders. His heart hammers in his chest. “No, no, hold on, I can heal you—”

     Tarimel pushes his hand away. “There’s nothing you can do.”

     Cullen isn’t aware of tears in his eyes until one drops from his cheek and lands on Tarimel’s blistered forehead. “You can’t, you can’t,” he begs helplessly. “I can heal you, or Wynne could—”

     “I can sense them,” Tarimel cuts him off. “There are more coming. You have to get out of here and warn them.”

     “No, I’ll carry you if I have to—”

     “Shut up, mage.” Tarimel speaks without venom. He manages to crack a smile; his dry, blistered lips split and a drop of blood pools in the crevice of his lower lip. Tarimel touches the blood. “Look at me. I’m dead already.”

     Cullen sniffs. “Don’t say that.”

     “More darkspawn are coming. Bring down all the tunnels.”

     “But the infrastructure—”

     “I don’t care about the infrastructure. If darkspawn take over the tower, the battle fails. We cannot win it without the beacon.”

     Cullen opens his mouth to protest, but nothing comes out except a helpless sob.

     Tarimel disentangles himself from Cullen, hauling himself to his feet with a pained groan. Blood stains the back of his leathers, where the dagger ripped through his armor. He retrieves his own dagger and the shriek’s from the floor.

     Cullen realizes what he’s expecting to do and slowly rises to his feet. His legs feel numb.

     Tarimel lets out a haggard exhale. The man is burned, his wounds still raw and open, and now he is bleeding profusely from an injury that might have hit one of his internal organs. Still he stares into the abyss without flinching. “Go, Cullen, and collapse the tunnel behind me. They cannot get into the camp from this way. We’ll be surrounded.”

     Cullen is struck speechless. His strategy makes sense, but it feels so _wrong_. “I can’t abandon you here.”

     Tarimel cracks a bloody smile. “Duty, not abandonment. This is what Grey Wardens do.”

     The sounds of armor scraping the ground come in the distance. Cullen and Tarimel both look in the direction of it; the traumatized soldier has been rendered speechless.

     “Go! Now!” Tarimel orders, pointing back towards the way they came.

     Cullen wants to protest, but the sounds are advancing closer and closer. “Make them work for it,” he finally hears himself say.

     Tarimel stares into the dark tunnel. He looks dangerous. “I intend to.”

     Cullen seizes the traumatized soldier from beneath his arms and drags him to his feet. He takes off down the tunnel, half-hauling and half-dragging the soldier behind him. Once a sizable distance extends between them and Tarimel, Cullen turns around and collapses the tunnel with several well-aimed fireballs.

     He glimpses darkspawn emerging from the shadows—all burly, wearing patched together armor—and clash with Tarimel. One runs him through the shoulder just before the last boulder hits the ground, blocking his view.

     Cullen grabs the soldier by the hand and guides him through the tunnels. They are the last; they _must_ survive.

#

Hours seem to pass. Tarimel had the map, Cullen remembers fairly quickly, and he picks his way back to the tower mostly through memory. The tunnels are quieter without their party and without the darkspawn. His only company is the traumatized soldier, who trails after him like a ghost.

     Cullen pushes himself beyond the point of exhaustion—and the soldier collapses twice—before they finally come upon the narrow tunnel leading towards the entrance. They approach the ladder and hear the sounds of a battle winding down. A shriek cries out somewhere above them.

     At the outcry, the soldier drops to the ground and curls into a ball. He doesn’t speak or cry, though tears stand in his eyes; he simply stares blankly into the distance.

     Cullen reaches the base of the ladder as the sounds of battle fade.

     A familiar voice speaks out near the entrance. “We have to keep going,” he says—Alistair.

     Cullen sends up the wisp. “Warden!” he shouts.

     “There’s another!” cries a woman.

     “No, I know that voice!” A moment later, Alistair’s face appears above the ladder, squinting into the darkness. “Is that you, Cullen?”

     Cullen breathes a sigh of relief. He’s so exhausted and battle-worn that it comes out as a half-sob. “Yes! Myself and one other.”

     Alistair squints into the darkness. “Are you with Tarimel? We could really use another hand if you’re finished.”

     Cullen opens his mouth, but the explanation is beyond him. “Give us a moment while we come up,” he calls instead. He returns to the soldier, gently prying him out of his terror with whispered sympathies, and helps the man up the ladder.

     Alistair stands beside the hole with an elven woman, dressed in a silverite tabard over her dark leathers with griffins gleaming on her chest. Both are splattered in blood and black ichor and surrounded by the corpses of darkspawn.

     The soldier collapses onto the ground as soon as he emerges. He covers his face and stares at nothing from between his fingers.

     Alistair looks over the two of them with a slowly deepening frown. “Tarimel isn’t with you.”

     Cullen almost feels overwhelmed by his grief, but he manages to answer: “No. He’s probably dead by now.”


End file.
